bout de papier, Vol. 4, No. 2 (1986) — Spring/Summer 1986 // Printemps/Été 1986, pp. 23–24
Here clow or account ofinalzing he worldly affairs of a countryman whose journey into retirement was foreshortened by untimely death. With respect for the deceased and those he left behind, details revealing identity are omitted. The story is being offered as instructive to colleagues who may, at some time, find themselves virtually alone in having to deal expeditiously, and with compassion, in an alien environment to implement the wishes of family and/or friends of a Canadian who passes from this life far from home. This is serious business.
The location is the cultural fortress of Bali, buttressed by thousands of temples, land of child-like people and the fearsome “Kecak” chanting dance performed in lush jungle settings by torchlight. This is the island of dreams, the Hindu redoubt of the Indonesian archipelago where, I am told, the mass incursion of gaping foreigners brought hitherto unknown shame to the Balinese women and a host of other “civilizing” features. Onto this island arrived a retired bachelor en route overland and by sea to Australasia and his intended destination in the mid-latitudes of the South Pacific. He never left Bali.
I was called at the embassy by a distraught manager of some beach cottages claiming a Canadian had died. The former had been fingered by local officials as responsible for doing the necessary. “What’s more” he remonstrated,, “the fellow had passed on without paying his bills”. Before setting off to take the matter in hand, a flurry of messages back and forth, hither and yon, led to the instruction that the deceased was to be locally interred and in a Christian manner. With these unequivocal orders I proceeded to Bali in the belief that all could be accomplished without great effort or incident. Certainly my superiors at the embassy gave no hint that this situation was out of the ordinary.
Met on arrival by concerned hotelier, I was filled in on the sad details of his brief acquaintance with the subject Canadian who, it seems, had spent a few years slowly making his way through Europe, Central Asia and the sub-continent to Southeast Asia. He had intended to explore Bali for a bit before setting out again. It became evident during the conversation that a mild friendship had been struck between the two due to the many details divulged. However, present reality intervened with comment on the unpaid bills and other miscellaneous charges which had accrued since the man took ill and died. Mention was also made in passing of some procedures and formalities to be accomplished involving local officialdom. Being accustomed to some of this both at home and elsewhere, I thought nothing of it at the time.
In line with my intended stay of a day or so to arrange the details, I was offered accommodation at the establishment of this Balinese gentleman. I was given a small wooden cabin with all accoutrements in the Balinese style, meaning very spartan bathroom facilities, a great bed of hewn and intricately carved timbers and open air windows with stockade shutters, presumably for security purposes.
Furthermore, I was invited to dine with my host, which I did, in a small sea-side pavilion stocked with more fresh seafood and fruit than I had ever seen in one place.
It was there that he started to drop the bombs — an autopsy, a police report, a coroner’s report, another police report, an immigration report, an immigration release, a customs’ release, a hospital report, a hospital release, a morgue report, a civil report, a disposition report, an inventory of effects, a custody document and a final police report confirming all prior action.
There may have been more but I have since forgotten. However, I do recall losing interest in my food and timidly enquiring whether all this might be accomplished in timely fashion.
“We are sensitive to the deaths of foreign visitors”, came the reply, “and everything must be thoroughly detailed”. My heart sank. How was I going to get through this maze? And even if I did, what lay in store for me in accomplishing my prime directive, namely, a Christian burial?
The only bright spot on the horizon was my host’s offer to put a vehicle at my disposal the next day to launch into my rounds. This gesture I considered as compensation for his obvious relief in handing over the burden. I had a fitfull sleep amid dank and humid surroundings which a cold water splash bath did not alleviate to any degree.
Awake before dawn, another bath bringing me to full alert, I soon motored off in a bat-wing ’59 Chevy, with driver, on my paper chase during which I assumed the roles of high official, messenger boy, concerned compatriot, medical advisor, legal consultant, one man coroner’s jury and later on, carpenter’s helper, funeral director and lay preacher. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Several hundred kilometres were logged over the three days it took to obtain the papers plus requisite rubber stamps all in precise order. The Chevy and its tamer were my greatest allies. I learned the location and function of every office in and between Denpasar and Kuta, every pot-hole and hidden intersection firing broadsides of motorcyclists, and also the eerie but indisputable fact that 2, that is two ’59 Chevys can pass each other safely at 100 km/hr on a 12 foot wide roadbed without knocking over a single rice stalk on either side. Ox carts and processions command more caution heralded by the squealing of brakes and grinding of gears.
With all written documentation in hand I was finally empowered to commence the proceedings I had originally arrived to undertake. Not so easy! A 40 minute walk on an ancient footpath took me to a man known to make coffins. His memory was weak as to their construction and dimensions owing to the dearth of Christians wishing local burial. We worked it out using sticks for pencils and earth for paper, and settled on a price that had something to do with time and cubic centimetres (of space, not of wood). Delivery was promised and he was true to his word, although the product was humble in the extreme.
Next came location. This was obvious, as during earlier times, there had been Christians requiring proper burial, and a place had been long ago set aside, right in the middle of the now expanded town. There was a caretaker of sorts who provided a marker as part of his service. This service was evidently a recent phenomenon as cursory inspection of the cemetery led me to two conclusions: One, there was no discernible evidence of new occupancy within living memory; and two, likely a corollary of the foregoing, there was literally no space available. Proceedings were “in check”. After a thorough reconnaissance I identified a space at the entrance to the cemetery. “This is the walkway” protested the caretaker. “Make a new walkway”, I replied. Following a private conversation in the Chevy he succumbed to my entreaties for a price. The site would be prepared within hours.
My next foray was to locate a suitable cleric. No luck. I settled for a bible, brought with me for insurance, if not personal comfort. I returned to the cemetery, inspected the grave marker, a hand painted artifact with the data I had provided, and gave my reluctant approval. Shortly thereafter, a vehicle bearing the remains arrived while the preparation of the grave was under way. By this time a silent and respectful gathering had formed to bear witness to this final rite from a world alien to its own. Work was still in progress. It was a losing cause. The water table was centimetres below the surface but the men whom I had hired were doing their level best, alternately bailing and digging.
Time passed and all was as ready as could be expected given the difficulties. A solemn group transported the coffin and laid it upon a liquid bier. Calling for the silence of the many in attendance I intoned selections from my bible such as I had heard before and considered fitting, all the while mentally grappling with the principles of Archimedes and Newton.
Having completed the service which, by the way, was suitably dignified by the presence of more than a quorum – over 100 reverential Balinese and a minor traffic jam, the actual burial was still in question. Like it or not, I prevailed upon some young boys to sink the coffin by standing upon it while the soggy earth was filled overtop. Beautiful children came forward and covered the grave with offerings of fresh flowers.
The ceremony over, the grave marker placed, I returned to my cabin to reflect on events. I still had paperwork, hundreds of miles away at the embassy. The designated executor must be advised of all details and transactions.
But even in the writing of this story, years after the event, I return to the scene with a feeling of some pride in having been instrumental in consigning a fellow citizen to the corruption we must all face, prepared or not, with a dignity and respect of no less moment than we mount here in Canada. I was satisfied the best had been done, and done well.
Having vented my maudlin recollection I will sign away this tale with the following: My task complete, I prepared my departure, whereupon, having settled the bills of the departed, I was presented with my own reckoning: five days of Chevy on 24 hour stand-by; a sea-side dinner for two plus super deluxe accommodation; etc. etc.
Back at the embassy I was greeted in usual style. “Did you have a nice time in Bali?” I replied affirmatively and that was the end of it. Except this. With approval, all the worldly goods of the deceased were donated to a group of villagers whose homes had been ravaged by fire. A testimonial was sent to the surviving relative, a young niece in another country whose picture which I traced was, I know, the dearest possession of this man I never knew in life, but whom in five days I grew akin to in death.
May we all find merit in this form of service which cleanses ambition and gives real added value to public employ. Such are the rewards of duty.
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Originally published in bout de papier, Vol. 4, No. 2 (1986) — Spring/Summer 1986 // Printemps/Été 1986, pp. 23–24. Read the rest of this issue →
